Forever, With You
by Ombre Rose
Summary: Season 5, Episode 13: Following the scene on the eve of battle of Camlann, Arthur and Gwen spend one last night together. It continues on to the morning the Queen receives news of the King's death, leaving with her a letter written no truer than from the heart, and possibly a will to live on.


**Forever, With You  
**By Ombre Rose

* * *

_Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear,  
too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice,  
but for those who love, __time is eternity__._

_~ Henry Van Dyke_

* * *

In the tent set up for the royal rulers of Camelot, away from the men and their armoury, away from campfire talk of battle strategies and fears of the war that awaited them, they remained locked in each other's embrace. And both of them would remember it, all of it. They wouldn't forget the quiet stillness of the night, the warmth they've found in each other's arms despite the chill in the air, the melancholy monotone beat in their joined hearts.

"I'm so afraid, Arthur. Afraid there'll be no tomorrow with you."

"Sshh…" he whispered against her neck. "Between you and me, Guinevere, let it be tonight. I have to fight for tomorrow, and the day after and into always. But with this, with you, it's just tonight."

"Then for either of us, love me again," she murmured as she pulled away slightly, her lips seeking his. "Love me again, one last time before dawn."

The kiss they shared was tender and slow, a savouring of every touch, every taste. It was a kind of drug against any pain, silky caresses a balm over wounds that must be endured. Their hearts would beat hard and strong together as one now, possibly for the final time.

Tonight he wouldn't think of the sunrise and the obligations that came with it. This night was his, and while she was with him, so was she.

He scooped her up into his arms in one effortless motion. His lips cruised over hers as he carried her to their bed, laid her back, then covered her, pressed her into the mattress, body to body.

Like her scent, her taste was of springtime, of sunlight and youth. There was a freedom here, with her. And despite everything, trust. Absolute trust.

When she trembled against him, he braced himself on the bed with one hand while the other went to work at her laces that kept her dress intact. Tugging at the strings, he peeled the material off her and bared that soft cinnamon flesh for his eager lips. He could feel the yielding in her as well as the tremors, and when his mouth brushed along her throat in soft, lingering kisses, she sighed.

He sampled slowly, lingering over tastes and textures. And with each shiver, each sigh or gasp, she fed his arousal. He wanted every bit of her, and would remember always, the taste of her flesh, that tender spot just behind her ear, the silken feel of her skin under his palm and fingertips. He'd burn the memory of her, every inch of her, into his brain's eye.

His hands simply ruled her until she was hostage to this never-ending need. Wanting more, her nimble fingers went to his sleep shirt and tugged blindly.

"Arthur, I need –"

"I know." Obligingly, he pulled off his shirt so she could touch and taste him in return. And let himself glide on the pleasure of her eager explorations. Her breath against his skin, warm and quick, her fingers tracing, then digging. When her hands gripped his hips, he let her help him strip the rest of his clothes away.

Now, fingers slid over skin, and lips followed, lingered so that each caress, each taste was precious. Sigh answered murmur. A mingling of breath.

Catching her needy hands in his own, he trapped them above her head as he slowly, mercilessly ravished her. She was one long line of surrender, and he sheathed himself in her.

Desire, without the red flash of flames, was glided at the edges. Even when he urged her up to that fine and trembling peak, the glow held steady. They watched each other as he slipped inside her.

It was like coming home, for the last time.

Easy and lovely, like a dance remembered. Rising and falling, pleasure met with pleasure. His lips lowered to hers as her hands lifted, now freed from his, framed his face and held him there. The beauty and sorrow of it, that this could be the last time they make love to each other had tears swimming to her eyes.

"Forever, with you, Arthur," she murmured it against his mouth. "Forever, with you."

Her breath caught as she began the tumble. Her eyelids fluttered closed and the moan rippled her throat, still Arthur held on, held on.

His mouth was on hers again, skimming tenderly, tormentingly over hers. "With you, Guinevere…" Swamped with love, he buried his face in her hair and let himself go.

* * *

She curled up against him as she slept. Her head nestled into the crook of his shoulder, her hand on his heart. Earlier, she had tried to stay awake for a little while, wanting to feel and listen to the sound of his heartbeat. But sleep eventually took her. Now she laid quiet and still beside him.

But he did not sleep. He could not sleep. In the calm of the night, he listened to the steady rise and fall of her warm breath blowing against his chest – soft, soothing and gentle like the whisper of a child murmuring its happiness in its sleep as he twirled a lock of her dark hair around his fingers.

Their lovemaking was both sweet and tender. Yet, the young king's heart felt heavy as stone. Heavy with the sudden knowledge, a dreadful certainty that he may not come back from the impeding battle that lay ahead alive. So many risks, he thought, so many contingencies, and so many ways to fail. Hence, it was time, he determined, to write down his wishes in the event he doesn't return. He would do this one last thing for Guinevere.

With all the gentleness he could muster, he peeled himself out of their tangled limbs and rose from the bed. He reached for his robes as he moved to the desk in the middle of their tent. Dressed now, he sat and brought out a clean parchment. He laid it out in front of him, lifted the sharpened quill from its ink bottle. And paused. A question irresistibly emerged.

What would he write to the love of his life on the eve of battle, knowing that this night could very well be his last?

As if in answer, the words came to him then, all but echoed in his mind, no truer than those said from the heart. They fell like the tolling of sweet, grave bells upon the very core of him. And he began to write, steadfast as the soul of truth.

Once done, he sealed it with the Pendragon symbol. And instantly he felt better having done it. Lighter and clearer in his mind somehow. He would give the document to Leon for safekeeping and with proper instructions in its delivery.

Setting the paper aside, he rose to start towards the entrance of their tent and lifted the flaps to reveal the night outside. The moon was half past full now. It dawned on him that when that circle sets into the horizon, blood would soak the ground.

He had seen and fought in many wars. Wars for land, for riches and resources, for kingdoms. Wars waged in the name of faith. But this one had come to be his. Man always had pride, or even honour. So for all of that, this was his. If he survived the day come tomorrow, he'd ride one day again in Camelot – or wherever he chose. And he'd think of his kingdom with its lovely hills and thick forests. He'd think of the green and the tumbling water, the standing stones, and the Camelot castle on the rise in the heart of Albion.

He'd think of its queen. Guinevere, with her warm brown eyes and the kind smile that masked a clever, flexible brain and a deep, rich heart.

She'd do what he asked of her in his letter, he thought. An enormous task, but she would do it. He wished, with all that was in him, that she would give Camelot, and all of Albion, the sun after the blood spilled.

And he would take all these feelings, these needs and wants with him and survive. When he rides into war, he wanted to take this much of her, and have that single glimmer of light through the battle he must face ahead. He might die tomorrow, he and his men, but by the gods, he won't go down without a good fight. Morgana, for all her power and ambition, would never understand them. And the magic of them, the light of them, might just carry the day.

For the first time, he believed, truly believed – whether he survived or not – humankind would triumph. Camelot would triumph.

Dropping the flaps now, he turned and made his way back to the bed and the sleeping queen lying in it.

She was beautiful, and a quiet sleeper. One who appeared to nestle into dreams without a lot of rolling about. Her face held both peace and beauty, and a kind of innocence. It was a face he knew as well as he knows his own. He could conjure it up in his mind, the way it runs from cheek to jaw. The shape and colour of her eyes, and the moods of them.

Bending over, he brushed a tender kiss to her temple and climbed in beside her, tentatively easing her into his arms. He closed his eyes, the spell of exhaustion finally taking over his form, and joined his wife in sleep.

Whatever tomorrow brings, come what may.

* * *

**_Camelot  
Four days later…_**

* * *

The dawn came cool and pale. Looking down from the window she watched the white sun rise slowly, lighting the valleys and stalk forests beyond the castle walls, the dark mountains behind. The only sound was that townspeople hustling in and out of the city to provide assistance to injured knights, but all of it seemed distant in the faraway corner of her heart.

Days have passed since Gaius returned with news of Arthur's injury and pilgrimage to Avalon. He had pressed the royal seal into her hand, informing her that Arthur had entrusted it to him for him to have delivered to her. Its importance, its significance was not lost on her. The ring was a sign of her authority, in Arthur's name, a sign that in the event of his death she would be the rightful heir to the throne.

Since then, none of them have heard from him or Merlin, and she had no knowing if either one of them was still alive. No knowing if her beloved king was ever coming back to her.

Vaguely, she heard the firm knock on the doors to the royal chambers. At the creaking of doors, the sound of heavy boots followed, stepping towards her and stopping. While she knew who it would be, she did not turn to greet the person who had entered. Not yet. Instead, she remained at where she stood, by the window and the slant of sunlight.

"My lady…"

She shut her eyes. There was something in Sir Leon's tone that turned her knees to water. Bracing herself, she turned around, with the sun slanting at her back and glinting on the thin circlet of her office. Instantly a shudder passed through her as she understood what she had heard in his voice, for what she was seeing on the noble knight's face.

"He's dead," she said slowly. "He's dead, isn't he?"

A soft intonation of profound sympathy came into his usually eyes as he stood before her like a statuesque figure. "I'm sorry, my lady."

Grief struck her. There was a burning in her chest, burning with the unshed tears that threatened to spill over her cheeks, that streamed through her voice as she spoke. "How did..." she began weakly. "How did you..."

"Merlin. He has returned."

She let out a quick breath. The impossible ache that had already began to drag upon her soul like leaden weights lifted a little. Merlin is alive. "How is he?"

Sir Leon looked pained at her question. "He's… grieving, my lady. Gaius is with him now."

Presing a hand to her belly, she drew it upward toward her constricted heart. _Oh, Merlin._

At her melancholic silence, the knight lifted his hand to reveal a sealed paper he had been holding since he entered the room. "The king told me to give you this, should he… Should this come to pass."

She simply stared at it, unseeing, her spirits sinking like stone. Finally after a long moment, she accepted the folded parchment and nodded. "Thank you, Leon."

She said nothing else he graciously bowed and made a turn to leave the room without another word, giving her the privacy she desired now more than anything. She waited until after he closed the door quietly behind him. Then slowly with deliberation, she moved to the bed she'd shared with Arthur through their years of marriage. Sitting now, she simply held the letter to her pounding heart until she had the strength to break the Pendragon seal.

And read.

~x~

_My dearest Guinevere,_

_If you are reading this, it means that I have failed you. _

_I have failed you as a king to rule our kingdom and bring a new age to its people at your side. Failed you as a husband to spend my whole life devoted to and caring for you until our hairs turn white with age. Failed you as a man to love you more each day for all the years we could have had together._

_I have so many memories of you in my head. Of you laughing with Merlin as you so rarely laughed with me in those first moments. Of you smiling at me with faithful eyes every time I seek your wise counsel. Courageous in battle or kind at heart. You never knew how often I watched you, and wanted you._

_I'll see you standing in the corridors, pausing to take in the morning sun that shone through the castle windows. I'll watch you in candlelight, holding out your arms to me, taking me into a light I've never known before or will know again. And I'll remember, always remember your beautiful face, your warm eyes, and all that's inside them._

_I'm asking you to be happy, to rebuild Camelot as your kingdom, your life, and to embrace both. To do less would be a dishonour to what we had. To what you gave me. _

_With you, somehow with you, I was the man I dreamed I would be. That man loved you beyond measure. What I am, who I was, and all that I ever could be, loved you, despite everything. _

_Remember this, my love.__ We have always been. We shall always be. Not time, not distance, not lifetimes can do more than momentarily interrupt the coexistence we are meant to share._

_Live for me, Guinevere. So that even in death, I'll know that you do and be content._

_Arthur_

_~x~_

A heart could break again, she realized. It could break again, and again, and again, for it held a deep well of infinite sorrow. Lying on the bed where they'd loved each other so many times before, she pressed the letter to her heart, and let it empty.

* * *

**_Camelot  
Decades later…_**

* * *

It was the midsummer wind that made him think of the tale. Overhead the soft gold of the late afternoon sky burst like a jewel in the sun, casting its light onto the castle grounds below. There was the idle chatter of the crowd; here and there a solitary group greeted him like a friend in a sea of familiar faces of the townsfolk.

In front of him, the town's children had gathered, huddled on the floor, squeezed by twos and threes. Their faces turned up to his, awed by the story he's told them. Over the past few days, he had told them much already. For a tale like his cannot be told in a day. Coming close to the ending, he would end it. And end it good.

His tale had begun with the young wizard who was called by the Great Dragon, Kilgharrah, charged with a destiny to help Arthur, the Once and Future King to unite the land of Albion, and gather an army to stand strong against the evil Morgana.

The tales he had told them were of battles and courage, of death and friendship. And of love. The love that had bloomed between a prince and a serving girl had strengthened the legend as true magic must.

"So they lived," the old man said, "and they loved. Camelot flourished under the rule of King Arthur and his beautiful queen, Guinevere. For them, even in the dark of the night, a light shone. King Arthur was the man who pulled a sword from the stone, who rose from being an arrogant prince to the greatest King ever lived, who had a round table surrounded with knights and unbeknownst to him, a wizard at his disposal. Till his last day, he stood tall and proud with his legendary sword, Excalibur at his side and his faithful servant at his back."

The old man stroked the hair of a little one who'd climbed into his lap. "And like her husband, Queen Guinevere was both a wise and noble ruler, demanding justice at every court, yet giving mercy to those who ask it. It is for these very reasons that the legend of the King and Queen of Camelot will continue to flourish and live on in the hearts of many and for all the centuries and generations to come. Their legendary love formed a circle, and that circle grew stronger and formed circles out from it like ripples spread in a pool, bringing the tale of the king, the queen, the Knights of the Round Table, the evil witch and the powerful sorcerer to its end."

With satisfaction, the old man sat back in his stool, admiring the fascination and wonder that had crept onto the children's angelic faces.

"That was amazing, Master Merlin! Is any of it true?"

"It is. All of it."

"Wow…" In excitement, the blacksmith's son shot up from the ground. "When I grow up, I want to be a Knight of the Round Table! Can we all go play and be Kings and Queens now, Master Merlin?"

He chuckled, patted the rump of the child on his lap. "Of course you can. Off with you now, all of you."

There were shouts and whoops, and he smiled as he heard the arguments already starting on who would be the wizard, who would be the queen.

Even as an old man, he sensed a person coming to him from the side. He lifted his head and looked to the approaching individual.

A middle-aged man – fair, proud, and handsome stood before him, leaning against the bricked wall. He was dressed comfortably, in a royal red tunic and travelling pants. Even in his fifties, his biceps were stout, attributed to the many years of training as a Knight. His hair, while tinged with grey at sides, was still bright and gold as tints of sunrise. His brown benignant eyes, like his mother's, have sudden gleams of cheekiness and wit, like woodland brooks that cross a sunlit spot.

"That was quite a story."

"Easy to tell what you've lived."

"True," the man acknowledged. "Since when did you become a storyteller?"

"I've been telling stories to children for a long time now. The kids love it."

"Hmm... so it seems." The man stroked his bearded chin, contemplating. "I'm glad I made the time today for some storytelling. And I must say, you tell it well."

"That's because the truth was already strange and magical enough."

Nodding in agreement, he pushed off the wall decisively. "I'd imagine you're done for the day."

"It appears that I am."

"Good. Then I was hoping we could make our way back to the castle before the sun sets. It'll take a while to get the grandchildren settled in for dinner, and I would like for you to join us."

Smiling, Merlin inclined his head in a gesture that spoke of respect and appreciation. "It would be my pleasure, my lord."

He made a motion to stand up, and struggled a little. Instinctively, the man reached out to grip his frail arm firmly and help him stand. "Age is catching up to you, my old friend."

"I'm not that old, just chronologically challenged. And I'd be careful if I were you. Middle age is when your age starts to show around your belly." The warlock gestured pointedly towards the man's slightly bulging abdomen.

The man let out a laugh of jovial significance. His face brightened with humour, making him look almost as handsome as he had been in his youth. "Point taken."

They walked in the softening sunlight, tuning in with the loveliness of the evening. Merlin's steps were slow and measured with age, but the man beside him kept the pace. They continued through the courtyard of the castle and the gardens towards the sound of more children playing ringing in front of them.

"Would that be Alwyn and Gwenyth with Sir Dylan's children?"

"It would." The man paused now, his brows furrowed pensively. "About that tale you told earlier, Merlin…"

He looked to him questioningly. "Sire?"

There was a moment of consideration on the other man's end, as if he was mulling over his thoughts. "My father..." he began. "He was indeed a great ruler of his time. The story of his undying love for my mother, I'm certain it would be one that would forever be told and retold for years to come. And they both will be remembered for many centuries and generations."

His mind dazed and wandering, he looked to the darkening sky. "Then I've come to ask myself – in all my years as ruler of this kingdom, have I lived up to that legacy they left behind?"

"Adeon." Merlin waited until the king shifted his gaze, and met his eyes. "From the moment you were born, I saw a great destiny that awaited you. Since then and till the time you ascended to the throne, it was there for you to fulfill that destiny and make your mark in Albion. You've devoted half of your life uniting the people of Camelot under your rule as a fair and just King, and the people love you for it. If your parents were still alive, I am most certain they would have been very proud of you."

With an answering glow of gratitude shining in his deep brown eyes, Adeon smiled. "You've always been the most loyal and honest friend, Merlin," he remarked, considering. "Without a shadow of a doubt, your story will live on as well."

The old wizard's face, lined with the years that has passed, lit up like pale wintry sunshine against his long train of pure white hair. "I sure pray that it does."

High above on the castle peaks, where the tall, impregnable castle overlooked the shadow of a great hill that reaches far out over the plain, and rivers that like silver threads ran through the green and gold of pasture lands, the symbol of Camelot, the Pendragon flag flew – red against the salmon-pink sky.

* * *

**Author's Note:** _I cried. I cried, and cried and cried watching the Finale, marking the end of the Merlin series. So this piece is my solace, and while it may not end with a happily-ever-after, I've given it at least a hopeful ending. And yes! I borrowed the famous quote from the "__Knight Life" by Peter David. I h_ope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it. Let me know what you think with a review, please! 

_By the way, Happy New Year to you all!_


End file.
